Kuzan 02 - Lovestorm

by Susan Johnson

  Into this lush, intimate haven of trothed passion, the air redolent of blooming roses and love's consent an intruder transgressed. Standing just inside the arched entrance so conveniently shielded by greenery, the tall, slender aristocrat with fawn-colored hair, cold, gray eyes, and a contemptuous curve to his lips expressed the acid hope that his wife was enjoying the party.

  Katelina froze at the first sound of the familiar sneering voice, and Wolf saw fear flicker in her violet eyes before his own gaze swung to the figure silhouetted against the brilliance of the ballroom chandeliers. Dropping his arms from her shoulders, Wolf instantly rose with one easy movement in an unconscious reaction of protection.

  Only the inherent demands of civility propelled Katelina to her feet, and she stood trembling, pale and shaken. Katelina spoke in scarcely audible tones, "Stefan, may I make known my stepbrother, Tchorook Oglou. Tougouse Kuzan; Wolf, my husband, Stefan Sergeyevitch Stepniak." Bows were exchanged. "Stepbrother?" Katelina's husband inquired sceptically, as his unpleasantly cynical eyes took the measure of his wife's friendly companion.

  The Daghestani warrior stood warily alert as the antagonistic husband contemplated the details of high black boots and long, graceful red tunic, the white underdress, the Eastern cut of the loose, scarlet sleeves, the gold lace trimmings, and the jeweled dress kinjal stuck in the exquisitely tooled black leather belt.

  "Yes, Monsieur Stepniak," Wolf replied in a grave, controlled voice, "a stepbrother," and he waited, wished for, dared the man to challenge him.

  Count Stepniak spent most of his waking hours in sporting pursuits of one kind or another, and his loose-limbed, finely muscled body bespoke this disposition for active amusements. He was quite an excellent shot and prided himself on his steadiness of hand as well as on his string of hungers. He noted the resentful posture of the Kuzan stepbrother and felt no fear. Count Stepniak was decidedly indifferent to the Easterner's provocative glare. Ignoring the presence of Wolf, he stood with haughty composure, a metallic gleam evident in his unwavering gaze, and coolly said to his wife, "Come home tonight."

  "But, Stefan, I've been staying on the Neva Quay. The children are there." Her voice was lamentably tremorous.

  The faintest hint of impatience twitched in the cold, gray eyes. "I trust," the count impassively demurred, "the children can be left to the care of their nurses for two or three days without any undue harm accruing. I'll be leaving again shortly. I wish you home while I'm in town." The faintly supercilious drawl could not have been improved upon for sheer self-centered arrogance.

  Wolf looked at the dismay and distress written so plainly across Katelina's face and quietly intervened.

  "You don't have to go." Wolf placed his hand on the hilt of his kinjal as he uttered the terse statement through clenched teeth.

  Katelina grew alarmed as Wolf s fingers shifted to his dagger, and she quickly placed a restraining hand on his arm as he began to move forward.

  "I'll stop at the Neva palace," she immediately, agitatedly replied to her husband's demand as she held tightly to Wolfs rigid arm, "give instructions to the nurses, and be back to our town house tonight."

  "Very wise, madame," returned her husband dryly. Having once again asserted his authority over his wife, he immediately lost interest in her. "Your servant, sir." He tipped his head briefly in Wolf's direction and left.

  Anger blazed in Wolf s eyes as he shook off Katelina's hand. "Why do you go?" he snarled, resentful of her ready acquiescence. "It's very plain you don't wish to." This gorgeous woman, so long denied him, had almost been his tonight, and wrath consumed Wolf as the inequities of their disparate positions were again imposed on him.

  "I have to," Katelina replied. "He is my husband."

  "What's wrong with you? Why do you stay with him?" Wolf raged, immune at the moment to Katelina's finer sense of responsibility to her children and her concept of wifely duty.

  Katelina broke into unhappy tears and said in trembling accents that of course he was right to be angry with her. Wolf heaved an exasperated sigh and pulled her into his arms, where she sobbed damply into the gold lace of his tunic.

  Katelina couldn't reveal to Wolf that it wasn't duty or responsibility that prompted her submission but rather some very ugly threats coldly uttered by her husband on the two occasions she had angrily talked of divorce.

  "You'll never see your children again, rest assured, madame," he had quietly breathed. "If legal means don't suffice, I'll simply take them away. Consider the consequences, I pray, before you reach any hasty conclusions." He was smiling, but she knew that smile, and fear gripped her heart.

  "I must oblige you then, it seems," she had said grittily but with dignity.

  "I knew you would be reasonable," he had then replied, still smiling, but very much more pleasantly now, for he had won once again. Stefan never stayed long; he would soon be gone. She could return to her children then, and in the meantime they were safe with her parents.

  Presently the tears diminished. Katelina raised her eyes to Wolf's and said sheepishly, "I dare say you're in just the mood to wash your hands of me. I've been a dreadful bother to you."

  "Oh, no!" Wolff said coolly as he brushed away her tears. "You're not getting away that easily."

  Katelina managed a happy smile and asked frankly, "Are you sure I'm really worth all the trouble?"

  Wolf laughed softly. "I'm sure."

  Katelina looked happily surprised, and a dimple appeared in her cheek as she smiled up at her dear stepbrother.

  "You must go to him?" Wolf asked, frowning.

  The smile vanished from her face. There was an infinitesimal pause before Karelina answered, "I must."

  Wolf looked thoughtful for a moment, then apparently decided to oblige her wishes, at least for the present.

  "Very well, Countess Stepniak. I'll escort you back to the Neva Quay."

  "You don't mind?" she timidly queried.

  "Not at all," he said politely, for the sake of his hearr's desire, perjuring his soul without hesitation.

  After leaving Katelina at the door to het apartments, Wolf entered his own suite and informed his valet, "Two bottles of my Kakhetian wine and my pipe."

  Minutes later as Wolf lounged on a couch near the balcony door, his boots kicked off and his tunic loosely open, he drew deeply on the mouthpiece of his water pipe, then closed his eyes and leaned his dark head back against the satin pillows. Despite his show of politeness to Katelina, Wolf knew the next few days were going to be bad. His hands were tied; there was nothing he could do. Ready, vivid visions of Katelina in her husband's bed were devas-tatingly unpalatable. He exhaled the sweetly pungent smoke thoughtfully and reached out to splash more wine into his glass.

  The languid, half-dozing figure on the satin sofa was deceptively passive. He felt enormously like striking out and hitting something. An abominable restlessness had taken possession of him, and he was rapidly getting into a very bad temper. If Wolf were suddenly to take it into his head to dispatch his rival, // that should happen, Katelina's problems with a cruel and autocratic husband would be solved rather sooner than she expected.

  The evening following Miss Riminsky's denouement Alex chose to escort Amalie home. She was familiar, comfortable; one needn't exert oneself to charm and entertain. They had both known each other for a long and physically satisfying period. One was always expected to be reverently honored by the pledges of virginity bestowed and to devote oneself accordingly to the innocent, plucked blossom, but he wasn't up to the charade tonight. Better Amalie's restful iniquitous excesses. Alex followed Amalie into the familiar setting of her pink satin and silver-gilt boudoir; so much more convenient than clinging virgins.

  "So very kind of you to see me home, Prince Alexander," Amalie flirted coyly as she entered her firelit bedroom. With a flick of her hand she dismissed the young French maid who was waiting up for her mistress.

  Countess Benckendorff twirled gracefully to show herself to full advantage and accidentally int
ercepted a familiar wink between the departing maid and Alex.

  In the course of sharing conjugal rights with Count Benckendorff during the past year, Alex had often come in contact with the pretty, dark-haired maid. At first he had ignored her languishing glances, soft touches when she greeted him, and seemingly casual brushes against him while showing him into milady's boudoir. But one evening Alex had arrived early for a rendezvous with the countess. With idle time on his hands Alex looked at the countess's maid for the first time with a certain attention, then quite amiably succumbed to the dainty advances of the comely young woman. In the ensuing months the prince had been known for a rare punctuality at the Benckendorffs'. The friendship between prince and maid had blossomed.

  Damn little hussy, Amalie fumed pettishly as she took notice of the maid's attractive good looks; tomorrow the brazen slut would be reassigned to duties far from the countess's boudoir.

  "Prince Alexander?" Alex drawled. "Really, my dear. No need to choose your words. A bit late to be so discreetly politic. I'm sure most of your domestics are quite aware that our acquaintance is of long standing. Surely such pretense is unnecessary," the prince declared bluntly as he began removing his garments in a very precipitous fashion.

  Amalie bristled at the gallingly insensitive attitude of her lover, who seemed interested in disrobing as rapidly as possible. But a single glimpse of the bare, muscular torso displaced such petty misgivings. The countess began untying the satin ribbons of her evening wrap.

  With swift, economical motions Alex unbuttoned his trousers as he kicked off his shoes, not sparing a glance for the beautiful Amalie, who was languorously slipping a thin strap over the smooth, soft flesh of her shoulder. All her graceful, charming, seductive artifice was quite wasted on Alex, who shot a swift look from under stern black brows at the fully clothed female and expostulated exasper-atedly, "Good God! Amalie! Whatever have you been doing?" In his particular frame of mind tonight the prince was not disposed to be charmed.

  Feeling rankled by this callously unromantic comment,

  Amalie yielded to a temptation she had scrupulously determined to avoid in her relationship with the prince. With great restraint she had always refrained from rhe urge to chastise Alex's behavior in any way, since the prince's reputation for abruptly terminating his tender friendships with caustic women was well documented.

  Under these trying circumstances, however, the countess forgot herself sufficiently to remark testily, "I hadn't realized you were in such a rush!"

  Looking heavenward in mock appeal Alex retorted sarcastically, "You're the one who said Boris may be home any minute."

  "But such haste! Do you take me for some common strumpet?"

  "Now, sweet, courtesy forbids me . . ." "Sasha!"

  The prince sighed softly. "Dear Amalie," he said sweetly, "need I remind you that nothing bores me more quickly than the sensibilities of an affronted woman who knows as well as I do the reason we're both here. And as far as undue haste, my pet, I'm only trying to be accommodating," he murmured suggestively as he swept a mocking gesture downward drawing attention to an obviously rigid tumescence.

  The lusty display drew a gasp of appreciation from the countess, who had sorely missed Alex's unique virility and prowess these past months.

  "Come, love," Alex urged more complacently, "let's make the most of our precious time."

  Adverse in his present mood to be treated to any display of Amalie's sulky temper, Alex strode across the space separating them, drew Amalie familiarly into his arms, and took his own violent measures to both preclude his boredom and put an end to any further remonstrances of the fair Amalie by savagely and emphatically kissing away her objections.

  Swift, experienced fingers manipulated the feminine garments, and within seconds a taffeta evening gown, petticoats, and corset rustled down to the Beauvais carpet followed by a shower of hairpins and combs. Quite oblivious to any gallantries of wooing, the prince fell on top of the lush beauty as he pushed her down on the nearest couch. He began vigorously pursuing the quickest path to a mutual and satisfying consummation.

  This indecorous urgency moved the lady to exhale the softest murmur of rebuke. "Alex!"

  The prince was not disposed to respond, his mouth being at present employed nibbling on one peaked, pink nipple.

  "Alex! You're like an animal," the countess began admonishing the top of the dark, wavy-haired head in a severe tone that trailed off into a low moan of rapture as the prince's fingers found employment as satisfactory as that of his mouth.

  Lifting his head briefly, Alex replied in a soft undertone, "An animal? Indeed? But not so repulsive for all that, it seems," and with a triumphant smile he noted the countess appeared to be no longer listening.

  For the next quarter hour the loudest sound in the pink satin boudoir was the ticking of the dainty Meissen clock on the mantel.

  The prince, never the hypocrite, had abandoned himself to the selfish pursuit of pleasure with his customary profligacy. Never one to moderate his excesses, Prince Alex was assiduously devoting himself to the game of love. His soft, dark curls were damply clinging to his forehead, and his lean body moved in a powerful rhythm that drew soft sighs of ecstasy from the beautiful countess as each thrusting stroke reached home.

  This sensual, cresting, feverish atmosphere was abruptly shattered by the intrusion of a light but insistent rapping on the door, followed by the quietly urgent bass voice of the footman informing the two entwined forms on the couch, "Count Benckendorff's carriage drove up!"

  Amalie squealed in fear and dismay, but Alex never broke rhythm as he swore savagely under his breath.

  "Sasha! Sasha! Please!" Amalie begged, attempting to rise.

  Indifferent to his lover's pleas, Alex growled, "I'll kill him!"

  "Sasha! Please, you mustn't!" the lady entreated, taking literally the figurative exclamation of frustrated anger that burst spontaneously from the prince.

  "I'll throw him down the stairs!9 Damn him! Does he know how hellishly inconvenient his timing is?" Alex snarled menacingly.

  This new threat was meant quite literally, for at this point in the throes of tempestuous passion, Alex was as heedless to danger as a baited bull.

  As the beautiful countess frantically whispered pleadingly realistic reasons she hoped would indicate to Alex the dire necessity to hide immediately, he finally reached consummation and in the merest passing of a second Alex's judgment returned, transforming his reckless fool-hardiness to an instant sanity.

  A scene with Boris lost its significant urgency, and a considerably cooler brain swiftly reasoned that discretion was perhaps the better part of wisdom at this point.

  When a justly suspicious Count Benckendorff burst into the room after having been detained by the loyal footman, he intruded on an apparently placid, serene, if decidedly unorthodox, tableaux.

  Countess Benckendorff wore a frothy wrapper inadequately covering her comely form. She was drooping gracefully against the satin bolsters of her Empire couch, a damp towel pressed solicitously against her brow by Prince Alex.

  Boris cast a diffident, glaring look at the prince, whose state of dress was decidedly irregular. Although an evening jacket reposed on broad powerful shoulders, his silk shirt tucked carelessly into his trousers was open casually across his hirsute chest, while black tie was conspicuously absent.

  "Oh, Boris, I'm so pleased you came home," the beautiful Amalie mendaciously wailed. "I feel simply dreadful. I was overcome by a horrid fainting spell, and if the kindly prince hadn't graciously seen me home and administered comfort, it would have been a wretched ordeal."

  Looking up into the tawny eyes, Amalie cooed politely, "Thank you, Prince Alex, for your obliging succor."

  The prince straightened from his solicitous pose over the prostrate beaury and replied with a facile, careless mockery, "it was my distinct pleasure, Countess Benckendorff, to be able to offer you succor," and his mouth twisted into a wicked grin.

  Boris was far f
rom a fool, and the singular disarray of the prince's clothing in addition to his wife's dishabille put the lie to the sickbed scene. But while not fool enough to be taken in by the vignette of invalid and nurse, he was also not fool enough to challenge the explanation.

  In this situation Boris had two choices. He could call out the prince. Even if the on-dits concerning Alex's latest duel with Krasskov hadn't still been current, the prince's notorious reputation with pistols would have curtailed Boris's inclination to dispute. Quietly assessing the powerful, muscular figure of the prince, Boris didn't cavil over trifles like his wife's virtue.

  Boris had long ago wearied of the prized bauble he had purchased. Amalie had been another possession that seemed worth having, since she was so much sought after. But as with all his trinkets, the having never inspired the same piquant fascination as the wanting. Being a very lazy man, Amalie's demanding sensuality at first surprised him, then exhausted him, and eventually annoyed him. Boris had withdrawn from the role of husband almost immediately, preferring to patronize his mistresses, who practiced the indulgent flattery of their profession, enabling him to leisurely lie back and await satiation.

  He also knew why Amalie had married him. The day after the wedding he had incidentally informed his new wife that her father's gambling debts had been discharged, and he had continued to pay the mounting losses throughout the years. Amalie had been forced to be grateful for his indulgence of her father's inadequacies and also to be grateful for his largesse toward her. But the gracious humility hadn't come easy. She was a proud and beautiful woman. A streak of cruelty in Boris had effectively kept his beautiful wife in check, for while he overlooked her numerous affairs and conceded to all her expensive whims, he never allowed her access to his fortune. She was required to petition him for all her expenses. He quite enjoyed the role of warder.

  The decision was simple. "Please accept my thanks for seeing Amalie home. Have you time for a brandy and a hand of whisr before you leave, Archer?" Boris inquired tranquilly.